Given You My Best
by shakeitsalome
Summary: There was always the fear that this would be the last time, so she spent the quiet moments memorizing the feel of his arm around her, or the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Roman Reigns/OC One-shot


Given You My Best

It wasn't his hair that had first attracted her to him. She'd always preferred men who kept their hair short and neat. But her fingers still wound through the long black curls.

It wasn't his muscles, either. Oh, they were nice. Knowing he could manhandle her always gave her a thrill. And, feeling his biceps strain, she was aware of how much primal strength he possessed.

It wasn't his olive skin. Or the eyes that one moment seemed gray and the next seemed green. It wasn't his clothes, his height, his scent, his deep roar when he was fired up. Still, she stroked his skin, stared into his eyes, breathed in the smell of him. And she listened to his roar of delight.

It was his smile. That adorable, goofy smile that would transform his face when he thought no one was looking.

She was always looking.

Even now, when sleep wanted to overcome her. Sated and peaceful, she kept her eyes on him, though she knew what he would do. He always kissed her in that moment, while his hands loosened their grip on her hips. He always stayed inside her, letting her play with his hair. He always sighed when their bodies parted. He always lay next to her and pulled her in.

He always stayed silent. He always looked at the ceiling, his expression inscrutable.

Guilt, she supposed, greedily enjoying the rapid pulse of his heart against her cheek. There was always the fear that _this_ would be the last time, so she spent the quiet moments memorizing the feel of his arm around her, or the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

The silence stretched on and she felt the familiar ache start in her chest. Soon. Too damned soon he would be leaving. Whether on his own accord of because of a phone call, he would leave. Usually it was the phone call.

That phone call from home, signaled by the chorus of _Make You Feel My Love_ when he forgot to silence the ringer.

She hated that song.

But she held onto the moments as they dwindled down. She listened to his heart rate slow down, watched his eyes close and wondered if he cared that their time together was almost over. She listened to his deep sigh, closed her eyes when he squeezed her.

No, she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat. His lips brushed her forehead and she pressed her lips together. She wouldn't cry.

Her eyes burned as soon as he moved away. The ache in her chest grew to a sharp pain and she had to turn her back to him. His phone came to life, drowning out her muffled sob.

She refused to look at him while he spoke to _her_. But she couldn't drown out his voice. She couldn't not hear the deep rumble that was comforting and reassuring. Her heart clenched and she hated herself for falling in love with him.

He stopped speaking. Her tears accompanied the rustling of his clothes. The mattress dipped and she felt the heat of his hand before it cupped her shoulder.

"I'm sorry." His lips rested against her cheek.

"Does she know?" Even though she knew it would draw out her torment she turned to look at him.

"You know she doesn't." His fingers brushed away her tears. "Please don't cry, baby girl."

"Why?" she whispered. "Why do you always go back to her?"

"It's only for a little while. You gonna be okay?"

No, she wasn't going to be okay. Not until the torture was over. But she nodded, sliding out of bed to pull on her robe. Then she was in his arms, forced to endure the anguish of another kiss. It was supposed to be a promise. A reminder that he always sought her out again.

"I gotta go," he murmured. "I l—"

"Don't," she whispered, clutching the front of his shirt. "Don't say it."

"But I do."

He caressed her cheek. He gave her one more tender kiss.

He left.

And she was alone to count the eons until he could see her again.

* * *

She watched him out the corner of her eye. She couldn't look at him full-on. Not when his arm was around her. Not when he was laughing and joking and looking as though he were the best fiancé in the world.

Best fiancé in the world. She wondered how that would go over if he adopted it as a gimmick.

She maintained a calm exterior, chatting with coworkers as she picked at her food. She'd grown so used to pretending that everything was fine that she even smiled at them.

The perfect couple. The rising star and the woman that he loved. The woman that stayed by his side. The woman that carried his diamond ring on her finger. The woman that carried his child.

The woman she admired, hated, and was jealous of every day.

The woman that gave her pep talks when she was feeling down. The woman that had no idea.

She kept watching him, searching for the tiniest sign. For all intents and purposes he ignored her. The arm was still around her and she could remember its weight. Its warmth. The security it offered.

Stomach churning, she left. Unable to bear the sight of him looking so happy, she roamed the venue. She found the uppermost seat and, in the shadows, allowed herself to cry.

She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't stand the heartache. The elation when he was with her no longer carried over to ease the pain when he was gone.

A tissue was pressed into her palm and she used it to mop up her tears. The man sitting next to her didn't say anything. He merely looked out at the arena, seemingly interested only in the setting up of the ring.

He knew. He'd figured it out on his own, damn the man. He'd questioned. He'd argued. But he'd kept quiet, offering support in his own little way.

Tissues when she was crying. A companion when everyone else was out and she opted to stay in. An open ear. A nonjudgmental person she could pour her heart out to if she wanted.

She never did, but she knew the option was there.

His arm slung across her shoulders as her tears slowed. It wasn't large or heavy enough. It wasn't _him_.

"You're better than this."

"Right." The tissue was a crumpled mess but she used it anyway.

"It's not my place, but… He's not going to leave her."

"I know." It came out as a croak. Her heart twisted in her chest until she was sure it would detach.

"I'm sorry."

The kiss to the top of her head wasn't his. But it would do.

* * *

Days. Weeks. Months. She didn't measure the time but it seemed to stretch into years.

He called. She'd told herself she would say no, but a few moments later she opened the door to let him in.

He smelled of coconut and tasted of chocolate and mint. Apologies were given between kisses. His large hands roved over her body, removing her clothes, and she was powerless.

There was finality to it all. It didn't strike her until those silent moments afterward. He'd taken a little extra time kissing her. Spent a little longer making sure she was ready for him. Had stared at her sadly when their bodies joined. Or maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe she'd wanted him to do all those things. Maybe she'd wanted to think he knew it was over, too.

She moved first. She refused to let herself get comfortable in his arms. She reminded herself as she dressed that she could do this. She was strong.

Even though she felt so weak.

The phone didn't ring. He must have silenced it.

"Don't," she said when he stepped up behind her. She could sense his hands just above her shoulders. He sighed.

"Babe—"

"Don't," she repeated, voice stronger this time. "I know what you're going to say." She drew in a deep breath and turned to face him. "I can't, Roman. I can't do this anymore."

He stared at her, brow furrowed. One of the hands that hadn't touched her reached up to push his hair back. "What?"

"I need more. I need… I need better."

"Better than us?"

"There isn't an us. There never was."

Did she imagine the pain in his eyes? The surprise?

She shook her head before he could speak again. "Go. Go back to her."

"I want—"

"I want to be happy. I want to stop hiding in shadows and pretending. I deserve someone who can keep his promises." Surprisingly, there were no tears. That encouraged her. "I deserve better. _She_ deserves better."

"She—"

"Loves you. I do, too, but it's not enough for you. If it was, you'd have left her." A sudden realization made her eyes widen. "Even if you had… I don't know that I would have wanted you."

"Can I just—"

"I wouldn't have. Why would I want someone who can't be truthful? Someone who can't be happy with what he has?" God, she'd been so _stupid_. Angry with herself, she opened the door. Not just a crack so he could slip through, but all the way. She didn't give a damn who saw him leave her room.

"You don't mean this." He gently cupped her cheek. "I'll call—"

"I won't answer," she insisted. "Get out."

"You'll change your mind."

"No," she said, standing in the doorway once he'd stepped into the hall. "I don't think I will."

He walked away. She held her breath, watching, waiting for him to look back at her. As he always did.

But he didn't.

She kept watching long after he'd turned the corner, long after she'd heard the elevator.

A tissue was pressed into her palm. Looking down at it, she realized she didn't miss the tears. Her gaze followed the offering hand up to an understanding face. And she smiled.

"Just in case," he said softly. He closed her hand over the tissue.

She wouldn't need it.

She was done crying.


End file.
